The Notes of Dr Wilson
by andiitsgone34
Summary: These are the actual notes based from Dr. Wilson of Rutledge Asylum and talks about his patient Alice. NOTE! I do not own this and is part of American McGee's Alice, I just thought it would be cool to share it here for fellow fans. And a couple of characters will be mention in the notes as well, enjoy :)
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1: 1864**

1864 4 November 1864

Received confirmation from the Superintendent that I will be given the opportunity to treat a very troubled and difficult patient. Dubious honour! Her name is Alice, and her prognosis is not promising. After looking at her file, I'm astonished she has survived this long. She has been nearly comatose for a year.

"Would I have admitted her had I known then what I know now?" -3/10/73

11 November 1864

Mute on a stretcher, with her head curiously bandaged, Alice seems to cling precariously to life. Her burns have healed remarkably in the year since the fire, but she languishes in a deep trance-like dementia. It's as if the blaze consumed her senses wholesale. Deaf, dumb and blind to all stimulation, she's a fair match for the infirmary's gloom.

In a frenzied instant, a cankered feline pounced on Alice while she was about to be carried inside. Startled by the cat's yowl, the bearers lost their grip and dropped the wretched girl to the ground. Most curious to behold, the cat stood atop Alice as if claiming territorial right, or as if defending a rodent captured in the day's hunt from other hungry predators. Only when an orderly threatened it with a stick did the creature scamper into a nearby hedge. Even then the cat crouched beneath the shrubbery. With eyes agape, it fixed on Alice as if it had some vital interest in our proceedings.

"It pays to heed the feline — something I've learned over the years." -21/10/73

13 November 1864

In the twelvemonth since the conflagration, Alice has dropped further into a grim and darkly quiet abyss. It's a wonder the Superintendent didn't bury her deep within the Bedlam catacombs. The surgeons were able to cure the flesh, but they've done nothing to treat the inflammation of her brain. It's not sure what he expects me to accomplish with her. I suppose he thinks that in my twenty-three years within these troubled walls I've mastered a curriculum not taught in Oxford classrooms.

14 November 1864

Her one possession is a toy — a sooty, stuffed rabbit whose single button-eye dangles from a loose thread. Plaything from her time of innocence, and her only link to life before the fire, the rabbit is now sentinel to Alice's deepening dementia.

"The rabbit may prove a valuable instrument for shock therapy. I should have noticed it sooner." -21/10/73

8 December 1864

When I hold a flame to her eye, nothing in her vacuous gaze betrays the faintest glimmer of response. I clap a pair of blocks at her ear. Nothing. Neither her sight nor her hearing appear to be damage, still she registers nothing at all. The rumor (passed on by Reverend Mottle amongst others) alleges that she feels nothing — not pain, or fear or other torments — is neither credible nor kind. Still, she is far, far gone, this one.

9 December 1864

In many ways it's as if she's in the grave already; her countenance so still she appears to be in training for the coffin. Indeed, if she were to die today in this old hospital, nary a person would take note other than those few who recall her name from the papers. Those few who'd mutter to themselves "ah, that's a shame - the poor girl," and then turn the page to learn more of the recent stabbings in Notting Hill.

"So quiet she appeared. Was the deep madness already coursing through her mind?" -23/10/73

10 December 1864

Though she appears weak, she must have a strong constitution to have survived until now. Her fever persists, her breathing heaves violently at times and, even after more than a year of healing, burns so massive commonly cause great discomfort. You'd never imagine she's in any distress, though, the way lies there, as lifeless as a British Museum mummy. I daresay, however, that I'll stir her from her dreamery, even if the response is involuntary. I'll begin tomorrow with a steady treatment of cold plasters and bloodletting. The bleeding might cause some relief to her dementia. I also have a new shock apparatus that I'd like to try on her. I'm curious to see how she reacts to this treatment.

14 December 1864

The physicians who treated her burns reported that she barely noticed when they debrided and dressed her wounds. Indeed, she rarely showed any agitation at all when they examined her over the months. They also report, however, that on some nights, she howled like a banshee. When the nurses responded to the screams, Alice would hush, as if magically released from her demons.

Eventually, they stopped responding to these outbursts. And, after a short while, she stopped uttering any noise whatsoever.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2 1865 **

**1865**

6 January 1865

Another patient died in the night. I'd been treating her with the same potion I intend for Alice. I had been quite certain she was improving with each subsequent vial, so this development is quite vexing. Perhaps the stronger mixture was too much for her chronically weak chest. A little more experimentation is in order before I feed this serum to Alice.

"A little less laudanum and a little more camphor might have spared her." -13/12/73

22 January 1865

The bleeding doesn't appear to be causing a significant change, except for the increased pallor of her complexion. Contrasted against her drab rags, she's turned an uncanny shade of ivory. The bloodletting will prime her constitution for my restorative potion.

18 February 1865

Three amputations in a week - that's a high number, for any hospital. I dream of wiggling stumps and splintery crutches. I mumble a prayer of thanks to Napoleon's surgeon - how terrible the screams must have been before he discovered the technique for painless amputation.

I can't seem to escape the chloroform's cloying odor.

23 February 1865

Through the windows of my laboratory, I can glimpse the garden ward. Nurse D- is leading a group of children to the airing room. I listen to great shuffling of feet on the pebble path. Will Alice, I wonder, ever stroll the grounds with the others? Will she ever regain her senses? Or, for the rest of her days will she remain cloistered behind these thick, grey walls? Based on her progress so far, it seems futile to hold out much hope for a cure.

"Little could I have imagined her mind would eventually gambol in unimaginable forests and gardens." -27/1/74

24 February 1865

In the first months of her treatment, a surgeon by the name of Grantham took particular interest in Alice's case. He viewed her early reluctance to rejoin society as quite normal considering what she'd been through. The all-consuming fire. The loss of one's entire family. The shattered and scorched body. It's quite natural for anyone, let alone a child, to give way under such strain.

Yet, as the months passed, and as Grantham became more familiar with Alice, he began to comprehend that her problems were a manifestation of a far graver trauma. Bones eventually mended, as did the seared flesh; yet Alice remained locked away in her cocoon. Unfortunate chap, this Grantham. Seems like he had a collapse of his own. One day he was going about his hospital routine, perambulating amongst the feeble and infirm. The next day, though no one knows why, he turned up every bit as diseased as one of his patients, speaking gibberish and smashing apothecary jars. I've seen it happen here where doctors pass over to the other side, and, frankly, I'm surprised it doesn't happen more often. At any rate, Grantham's tale concludes with a particularly grisly accident with a surgical implement.

23 March 1865

Nothing seems to aggravate the girl. I've tried restraint — handcuffs, leg-locks and straightjackets. I've tried solitary confinement. On the other hand, I've allowed her to smell freedom, leaving her for hours at a time unattended in the garden. Yet nothing stirs her. I still have a number of methods, some of which I haven't engaged in since the old days, but I'm beginning to doubt anything can bring about a change in this one.

1 April 1865

Each year on this peculiar day I pause — exactly at noon according to my pocket-watch — to ponder the absurdity of such a day. Is it not ironic that we here should celebrate a holiday dedicated to fools?

The girl has shut down completely. If it were possible, I'd say Alice has retreated even further into what the European practitioners of psychiatry call her "psyche." I'll keep trying different methods, but unless there's some sort of marked improvement, there's no reason to hope. I'll document progress... if indeed there ever is any progress.


End file.
